


I'm a fool for loving you

by JennaMoon



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1960s, Bisexuality, Internalized Homophobia, John is a dick, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Period Typical Attitudes, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Songwriting, Teenagers, The Quarrymen Era, but we love him anyway, paul is sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:35:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaMoon/pseuds/JennaMoon
Summary: “John, I want you to meet my mate. Interested in joining us, he is.” Ivan said, casual as anything. It was casual. It certainly was… so why did it feel so momentous?John held out his hands, Paul making a quick note of the callouses. “John, John Lennon.” He announced, as if it was already a name the world should know. It sounded like one of those names, Paul thought, as he shook the sweaty palm. The grip was firm and Paul kept eye contact with the older boy.“Paul McCartney.”Paul and John meet as teenagers. They become the greatest of friends and the firmest of creative partners.But there's something else there, something Paul has always ben frightened of admitting. When the opportunity arises to make his feelings known, what is a man to do?
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	I'm a fool for loving you

The bus shelter was old.

Rusting metal, smashed glass in an ill-fitting frame, an outdated copy of the bus schedule. The buses had moved to a 5 to schedule six months ago. But the quarter-to still stood out, ready to confuse anybody new to the number 17 bus route.

Paul always felt a little bit bad for any new lad, especially the year sevens, who had been standing in the British cold and waiting for almost fifteen minutes before the bus arrived. Seeing their shaking knees, hands hidden in thin blazer pockets… it was certainly not an enviable position to be in. It would make it even worse when the older kids, fancying themselves hard-core Teddy Boys, would push the shivering lads out of the way and take the end seats, leaving the others to feel the blast of wind push in at every stop. But that was a problem that would always exist, outdated bus schedule or not.

The older years would push Paul out of the way, too… at least they used to. Now, everything just much softer. Paul had a nice seat by the window, middling, and nobody really bothered him. That was the silver lining in losing your mother, he realised very quickly on his first day back at school after the funeral. It was a much softer world.

Same old rusting bus stop and outdated bus route, though.

Paul was sat on his middling seat when he felt a pressure in the spot next to him.

“Morning George, lad.” He spoke, fiddling with the button of his blazer. It was fraying again, and his dad would scold him for fiddling it to wreckage, again… but it helped him think, not think…

“I broke my strings again last night.”

“Huh, tearing the place up again? Surprised your mam didn’t kick you out, over to mine again.”

George shrugged. “She was at my aunt’s. Can you come with me to pick up some more today?” The younger lad asked, taking out a brown envelope and jingling it. “My dad gave me six bob and a shilling for helping him with the guttering, easiest money I ever made.”

Paul smiled, finally easing on the assault to his button. “Explains why you smell like rotting leaves and bird shit.” He said, grinning as George thumped his thigh. He pretended to snatch the envelope, earning a dark glare. “I’m joking, wipe that dirty expression of your face, George! My god, anyone would have thought you just killed a man!”

“No, I just killed my guitar strings, again…”

George tucked his envelope away, into the side pocket of his old brown bookcase. “Are we doing anything this weekend?”

“Dunno, I sort of wanted to go to the village fair, it’s happening in Woolton, weather should be decent.” Paul opened his own bookcase, a sensible black faux-leather. “I took the flyer off the chippie wall.” He unfolded a tatted flyer and passed it to the other lad, who was scanning the page.

“Refreshments? Sounds great.” George said, finally. “Any reason in particular you wanted to go, Paul?”

“Free music, homemade cakes, and, well… I know a couple of the lads who are playing, maybe they’re good?”

“You want to scout out competition, you bastard.” George accused, his brow lifting up. Paul let out a scandalised huff and shook his head fervently. “Okay, tell yourself that.”

“I’m just interested.”

“Alright, Paul, we’ll go.”

Paul knew there was something about to happen. He felt it a year ago, when his Mum was on death’s door and so weak. When she could barely clap for him after he sobbed out a verse of one her favourite wartime records, but she still told him how brilliant he was. How proud she would always be of him. He felt a sharp twist in his stomach then. And he was feeling it on that Saturday morning, as he looked for something to wear.

The last time he was on church grounds was Mother’s Day. He had worn his school uniform, and stayed there until his dad came looking for him. He hadn’t said much, he just sat there, occasionally rearranging the pink carnations he had bought from a nearby florist. It was almost peaceful, like Mary was there, listening to his thoughts and reassuring him.

He couldn’t shake the bloody feeling that something was going to happen.

He pulled his comb through his hair, licking his fingers and rubbing against the stubborn strands of hair that wouldn’t settle down. It was humid, he could himself already getting frustrated in the heat. And he still wasn’t sure what to wear! He looked through his wardrobe, at the suits and jumpers and… aha!

“It’ll do…” He whispered to himself, before finally getting ready.

George hadn’t turned up.

It was disappointing and soured the mood slightly; Paul felt like an arse, sitting on the stone fence outside the fair for twenty whole minutes before giving up and heading into the field. He felt for his money (his dad had slipped three crowns into his pocket with a cheeky flick on the nose) and headed to the cake stand.

He felt a gaze on him, Edna from his Maths class. He turned to look at her and gave a short wave, before focusing on a particularly sad-looking Victoria sponge cake. The cream looked like it had soured a week ago, and the sponge looked more like cardboard.

_‘You’re a fantastic helper, Paul! Thank you for washing the strawberries.’ Mary, her skin pink and plump, smiled at her older son. Her hair was in curlers, four big, pink tubes that always seemed slightly intimidating to Paul. Her apron, the one she always wore when baking such sweet treats, was covered in jam and flour. Paul reckoned there was enough on her to make a second cake!_

_He loved baking with his mother. They always did it on her days off, when she had recovered from long shifts on her feet. The Victoria Sponge was always a classic, too. It didn’t matter how many houses they moved to, how many kitchens in various states of completion they took over, Mary’s cakes always looked homely._

_The jam was rich and a bright red, gifted by one of Mary’s co-workers. The sponge had come out perfectly, and Mary separated the cake expertly, in one quick knife-flick. She had let Paul spread the sweet jam, and Mike had been a fantastic helper in way of licking the spoons and bowls clean. The older lad had done his best to keep the jam even…. and it worked!_

_Mary had piped the cream on top and smoothed it out, turning mountains of fresh cream into still puddles, only slightly overpouring onto the sides of the cake. Paul had gone to wipe the cream away, but Mary gently pushed his hand to the side. ‘We aren’t a bakery, dear, this is a work of love.’ She said to him, before collecting a dollop of cream from her apron and wiping it on Paul’s nose. The lad gasped and broke out into laughter. His tongue darted, trying to lick at his nose. The three broke out into laughter once again…_

“Paul…?” A voice rang out. The thick cream and juicy strawberries began to fade, and instead Paul found himself glaring at a puddle of unsweetened jam and yellow crusts of hardened cream. “Paul, you off with the fairies or something?”

Paul’s head snapped up, and he broke out into a small smile. “Ivan. Hi.” He said, letting out a long breath.

Ivan had a long face with a sharp, jutting chin. He always seemed to be in a pensive, deep thought but in reality, he was probably thinking the same thoughts as most other 15-year-old lads. “You come to see us play?” He asked, sipping something that smelled faintly of paint-stripper out of a Styrofoam cup.

“Yeah, mate. I was meant to be meeting a friend, too, but, y’know…” He trailed off sheepishly. Ivan gave Paul a slow look and then turned his head towards the group of girls, smiling freely. Paul tried not to look too awkward as he looked over too, his eyes landing of course, on Edna.

She was a pretty girl, wearing her skirt slightly higher than probably thought acceptable. Her cheeks were rosy and her lips were a glossy pink. Yes, she was very pretty indeed, and Paul assumed he should have at least a slight urge to… kiss her, or something?

“Why don’t you hang out with the ladies or something, then? They won’t bite, Paul.” Ivan said, before a yell came from the group of teens on the back of a van. “I’ll catch up with you after our first show, yeah? Introduce you to the group.”

Paul nodded, and felt himself walk closer to the group of girls. They accepted him easily and Paul found himself leaning against a fold-up table with Edna.

“You came here alone, Paul? Did you know we’d be here?” She asked, her voice thick with eagerness. “My dad dropped us off, he asked if we were meeting any boys here.”

Paul nodded, fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. “I’m looking forward to the music, I hope they’re decent.”

“It should be you playing, Paul! I’ve heard you singing and playing. It’s dreamy.” Edna let out a long sigh and shuffled closer to Paul. “If you sang, you could snog any girl you wanted to.” She said quietly, so quiet Paul was sure she was directly against his ear. He didn’t look, though, and fixated his gaze on the group, getting ready to play. He recognised most of the lads, a couple his age and a few slightly older.

One lad, who Paul did not recognise, waved at the group, and instantly the girls began whispering amongst each other.

“He’s such a clown, Daisy! Don’t bother…”

“Aw, but he looks very handsome! And he’s trying to be a musician!”

“You haven’t heard him play yet, you ninny!”

Paul studied the teen closer. He wore a checked shirt, the collar ironed into a wave, and had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. If it wasn’t for those tanned arms clinging to the guitar like it was a raft in the middle of a storm, Paul might have snorted from the try-hardness of the whole display.

“Afternoon people. Am I looking at you or you are looking at me?” He spoke, winking. The muffle of the speakers made it hard to know for sure, but Paul was convinced he heard a nervous chuckle. The teen gave off some more banter before counting the other lads in.

... Okay, Paul knew they weren’t good. There were six or seven on that stage and only three seemed to understand what they were doing. The instruments that needed tuning weren’t tuned, and the leading lad was acting like his six string was a four string. But still, even as the frontman bluffed lines and missed chords, Paul felt his cheeks rise and lips part in a smile.

“Go on, John!” A girl near him yelled. _John…_ Paul mused for a second. His voice was good, contained character and made him feel joyous, somehow. And those casual winks… Paul, despite his brain reminding him he was currently sat with a group of beautiful girls, felt like they were for him. His smiled for a moment, shaking his head. What a thought!

He let his feet tap along and he mouthed the lyrics, the correct lyrics. Edna was glancing at him throughout, but he ignored the burn of her gaze. He focused on the leader, John… on how those thin lips worked so hard to spit out words with such passion. His eyes were squeezed shut, and Paul wondered where he might imagine himself performing. Somewhere private? Indoors? In a sold-out arena?

Paul closed his eyes, too. He could feel the heat of the day, hear talking and laughing and whooping. But the other teen felt closer, too… A solo performance? That would be nice. Paul could teach him how to play properly. How to tune a guitar for starters…

The music came to and end, too soon for Paul’s liking. The instruments stuttered to find their own natural end. More rehearsal needed; Paul noted. He opened his eyes and clapped, only faltering when he felt a glossy kiss on his cheek.

“You’re still better, but wow!” Edna exclaimed, before putting her thumb and pointer finger against her gums and whistling. Paul quickly dabbed his cheek with his sleeve, and rolled his eyes as her saw the light link transfer. Great. “Let’s get a drink, huh?” Edna pulled Paul up, and she straightened her blue skirt out.

Paul rubbed at his sleeve, huffing. “A drink?” He questioned, tone a little sharper than intended. Not that Edna seemed to pay any mind; she simply just nodded and pulled him to a refreshment table. She was talking about a teacher, some old-English type that would walk out of class to make a cup of tea and make the group stay behind at breaktime to make up for it. Paul nodded along to the conversation, letting out the occasional ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

The fete was beginning to slowly calm down again, some old gent on the speaker making some announcements about the winning lettuce head. He knew the Quarrymen were going to perform again at five, but it seemed like ever such a long time to spend with Edna, sweet as she was.

Paul was just about to resign himself to a fate of boring courtship when I noticed Ivan going around the back of the church. Probably to smoke or piss, he knew that. Still, it seemed like a good way out. Paul gave Edna’s arm a gentle squeeze and a tight smile. “I’m going to say well done to my mates, Edna. Thanks for the company.” He said politely, before dashing away.

As he approached the church, he could hear the group of lads messing about, some idly playing with instruments they barely understood. He caught Ivan by the door and waved him over. “You were good.” He said, petting his friend’s shoulder.

Ivan laughed. “As soon as we got of the stage John was on our backs about everything. He’s a right dick…” Paul felt something turn in his stomach.

“He has a great voice, though.” He insisted, though he wasn’t sure why. “Really, uhm… yeah. A good voice.”

Ivan snorted and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Sure, yeah…”

“Can I meet him?” He blurted suddenly, before looking away. He wanted to kick himself; what was he doing? “I mean, to see about… joining the band, y’know?” He added.

“You want to join?” His classmate looked shocked, and glanced at the door to the church’s function room. “I dunno if it’s your thing. Not the music, but the… behaviour.”

“I want to…” Paul took a step closer to the door. He heard Ivan let out a heavy sigh and smiled.

“Come on then.” He said, before striding in. Paul murmured a thank you and followed suit, wiping his palms on his lapels.

The band were lounging on boxes and a couple of rusting summer chairs. There was an air of casual conversation and underage drinking. Why did it make Paul feel so nervous? Nobody paid him or Ivan any particular attention… until Ivan prodded John’s shoulder twice.

The older teen turned, cup of something strong half-way to his mouth. He grinned at Ivan, before following his gaze to Paul.

“John, I want you to meet my mate. Interested in joining us, he is.” Ivan said, casual as anything. It was casual. It certainly was… so why did it feel so momentous?

John held out his hands, Paul making a quick note of the callouses. “John, John Lennon.” He announced, as if it was already a name the world should know. It sounded like one of those names, Paul thought, as he shook the sweaty palm. The grip was firm and Paul kept eye contact with the older boy.

“Paul McCartney.”

He needed to try and regain some composure! The heat was definitely doing him in, that was for certain….

“How old are you?”

“Same age as me, Johnny.” Ivan piped up. “To the day, even.” Paul nodded in agreement.

“I’ve just got a baby face. Works for getting the attention of sweet girls and the like.” Paul said, immediately feeling his cheeks flush. What was he saying, what was he doing?! The lads laughed, but Paul had a lurking sense that it wasn’t with him, more so at him.

“Good to know. But what I want know, _baby face_ , is if you can play one of these?” John reached over and picked up his guitar. He held it like it was a trophy… and Paul snatched it out his grasp. He pulled the strap over his head and leaned against an empty crate. He stroked the varnished slopes of the wood and smiled to himself.

“You’ve got it backwards, lad.” John said, sipping his beer. “What is this then? a joke?”

Paul glanced up and looked John in the eye. Then, he began to strum, and fiddled with the tuning head expertly. He smirked as he caught the impressed expressions on the lads faces, and met eyes with John. “Helps if it’s in tune, y’know?”

John nodded, pushing another lad, who Paul that might be called Pete but he wasn’t sure… out of the way so he could sit.

“Any suggestions?” He asked the lads, who all continued to just stare. Paul let out a slight laugh and began to play. He had only meant to play one song, just to show off. And dear lord, didn’t he love showing off? He wanted to show the lads what he was capable of… he wanted praise? Probably.

So yes, his intention was one song, feel like a music-playing God and then be done with it.

But, John Lennon was moving closer after every verse. His eyes were slanted, as if in deep thought, shoulders slouched and face in his hands, elbows on lap. Every chord seemed to send a spike of interest through the older teen.

Even when Paul closed his eyes, part-way through his third song, he knew John was studying him, his hands and his fingers and him nails and his mouth… it was a private concert. It was peaceful, Paul realised. He felt his voice grow more certain and he let his feet begin to tap.

He wanted to do well, for John… _Why am I like this_ , Paul thought, opening his eyes once more.

John was still staring at him, as were the rest of the group. Even Ivan, who has heard him sing and play before, seemed a little shocked.

Paul allowed himself the few seconds of silence to catch his breath and try to order his thoughts. “So…” He whispered, quirking an eyebrow up at John. “Am I in?”

John remained silently, rising slowly and holding a hand out. Paul stared at it blankly for a moment, all sorts of nonsense running through his head; was he supposed to hold his hand, where they going somewhere?

“Guitar.” John prompted, and Paul let out a nervous laugh. Of course. He handed the instrument back to it’s owner and shifted, John’s gaze suddenly feeling far too powerful.

“So?”

“Time’s getting on I’m afraid.” John replied simply.

Paul felt his heart sink, and he stood as if a hot poker had branded his behind.

“Y-yeah, course…” He whispered, glancing at Ivan, who simply gave him a confused shrug in response.

“Tick tock and all that… but thanks for the show, yeah?”

Paul felt for the buttons on his jacket and twisted them. “I need to g-get going anyway, so…”

“Course, yeah. Nice meeting you mate, hope the baby face works out for you.” And with that, John turned away. Paul continued staring, until he was spun around and ushered out by Ivan.

“Sorry Paul, mate. John’s a bit weird. You were epic though, seriously.” His friend attempted to reassure him. Paul simply nodded. “I’ll catch you at the second half, okay?” Paul nodded once more and felt the push of wind as Ivan shut the church door.

Paul decided he’d had enough of the garden fair.

Paul hadn’t slept well. All evening his brain had been playing the events over and over in his head. What a cock he had been! Any other man would have realised that he was showing off far too hard! He had truly, well and truly, mucked it right up. At least he had telephoned George, who told him that one of his aunt’s had died and his mother was inconsolable. Which was fair enough, Paul supposed… but if George had been there, Paul certainly would not have been quite as much of a tit as he had been.

Even in his room, with his guitar on his lap and his song book laying flat on his desk, Paul couldn’t stop his brain from prodding the large bubble of feelings he had… until it popped.

‘ _Sometimes I will wonder_

_If you’re related to the sun_

_You brighten up my days, ~~Joh~~ girl_

_You bathe my world in gold_

_You brighten up my days, girl_

_What in heavens hav-‘_

Paul stared in horror at his mistake. John. _John_! He was quick to put a line, two lines…. a whole scribble over the offending noun and write girl down, in as dark a shade as the pencil would allow.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” He hissed, before letting out a groan. “Why can’t I just think normally?!”

He threw his pencil at the door, and it clattered to the floor, in two halves. He watched as the longer half rolled under his bed, as the other hung about around his door, as if ready to make a break for it.

With a heavy sigh, Paul stood and went after the mess, shaking his head.

It was ten am on the Sunday and Paul was busy doing the dishes. He was slacking; his brain and lack of sleep had left him exhausted. Every time he tried to relax, he instead found himself thinking about John and his eyes… and his mouth, forming to sing in a way Paul found so exciting. Like every word was a promise and the promises were for him, about him. A love hymn for him…

And then he’d shoot up in a state of shock and shame for have thinking such queer things.

So yes, he was exhausted.

And then the telephone rang, and Paul let it sing for six chimes before finally answering.

“The McCartney residence.” He said politely, like he has heard his mother and father do many times before.

“Baby face, is that you? It’s…”

“John.” Paul interrupted, of course he knew. That voice and name had been swimming in his head for hours.

“Yes, hello. I was wondering if you wanted to come over and talk? Maybe play something?”

Paul wished his jumper had a button to fiddle with. “Now?”

“Yeah, My aunt Mimi won’t mind you having some snap with us. We can talk about the band.” John sounded so sincere... nothing cocky or suave… Paul found himself grinning.

“That should be fine, yeah. I’ll bring my guitar. Address?”

Paul jotted down the address on a near-by piece of paper, torn from an envelope. He wrote JOHN at the top in careful bold font, his pinkie finger tracing over the pencil markings. “I’ll be there soon, yeah?”

“See you soon… and Paul?” He felt his heart leap at the sound of his name being called.

“Yes, John?”

“I enjoyed yesterday.” And the older boy hung up.

And Paul found himself grinning like a fool regardless.

**Author's Note:**

> This won't follow things accurately. It's fanfiction.


End file.
